Five Faces
by thousanth
Summary: Five tiny little Predacon vignettes. Razorclaw, Tantrum, Headstrong, Divebomb, Rampage


**01. make me better / Razorclaw**

In the cool stillness of Shockwave's laboratory the only sound is the soft hiss of hydraulics as P-985-alpha flexes his claws. Great curved lengths of Cybertronian steel, reinforced and sharpened, they gleam silver in the light of the scientist's instrumentation. P-985-alpha watches the light chase itself along the curve of the blades, and stretches the weapons as far as they will extend.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of file system and directory, there are threads of old memory that remain yet as shadows amongst the crisp efficiency of his new systems. P-985-alpha tilts his head and tries to follow their strands back, but like the sands of an ochre desert, they flow away and are gone. He remembers footprints in the dust, the cold, thin atmosphere of dawn in the wastelands and then-

"Think nothing of it. Your reconditioning is almost complete, and any remaining inefficiencies will be eradicated in the last stage of processing."

_Inefficiencies._ P-985-alpha looks up into the slit-camera optic of the one that designates himself Shockwave, and curls his claws into fists. The desert is still in him somewhere, but this is what he chose to be, this is what will lead him to greatness. It has been a long and painful time coming, but patience is a virtue and P-985-alpha has always been very good at waiting.

**02. not the sharpest tack / Headstrong**

Somewhere behind him the wreckage of the Autobot base is still burning. It's so far back now that it takes a Predacon's optics to see the plume of smoke rising from the destruction. A Predacon such as Divebomb or Razorclaw perhaps. For Headstrong, stomping along with his head down and a snarl etched on his face, it's enough that he can see the tracks on the ground before him.

At least there were tracks when he started out. He's pretty sure he can still see them, though the scrub around here is hiding them from time to time. And not that it matters anyway – the Autobot went this way and he's going to find it. No escape.

The others stopped trying to call him back some time ago and he's glad of that. Their voices were starting to grate on his nerves and the last thing he needs when he's involved in a delicate operation like this is mechs distracting him. And as for Divebomb, that flashy fool claiming he'd run down the last survivor hours ago? Lies. The mech that Headstrong is tracking wouldn't have, _couldn't_ have, been caught that easily.

It's another three hours of trudging before Headstrong finally starts to admit that maybe, just maybe, he could do with a refuel. He's not giving up, because Headstrong doesn't know _how_ to give up, but he can at least admit that if Tantrum was around things might be a bit easier.

He's just paused to take stock of his surroundings when there's a flicker of interference across the comms channels, as though someone were sending a poorly masked signal. It's there and gone so fast that he's not sure at first that he's heard it. But then it comes a second and a third time, and all at once Headstrong knows that he's been right all along.

The hunt is back on.

**03. at a crossroads / Rampage**

Rampage burns.

Even when he is alone, the rage is still with him. It simmers in his circuitry, drawing fire through every conduit in his body, potent as the lava pits of the Ash Wastes. He feels it as a thunderous pulse that makes his legs shiver in sympathetic rhythm - a beating revolution of his spark that calls him ever into battle.

He could dance to the wild beat of this fearsome, joyful madness - this freedom of self that is the crash and scream of battle. The tearing of his claws through armour, the hot burn of energon as his teeth find exposed fuel lines, the crumple and give of a chassis crushed beneath the enormous impact of his pounce.

And always, always the war drums calling him on. He stands at the crossroads of action versus inaction, and listens to them beating out the rhythm of the universe. Just a moment to listen, to recall something other than the mad dance of war. A consideration of all that is and all that could be.

They say music soothes the savage beast.

They are wrong.

**04. full of blood and anger / Tantrum**

Tantrum sits in the midst of the ruined city and watches the buildings burn.

In the distance he can hear the cries of the renegade Bots that flee before his brothers' wrath. Rampage is still hunting and Razorclaw has not yet deigned to rein him in. Overhead the Seekers scream by, raining down fire on the survivors - flyboys come out to play now that the main battle is over.

Tantrum shakes his head at their antics and pours himself another measure of energon from the stocks strapped to his flanks. His part in this battle is over, now that the city is fallen and the heavy defence lines have been broken.

There's a crunch of ash underfoot as another of his brothers approaches. Tantrum watches him idly from his seat on an upturned crate and raises his canister of energon in salute. "Thought you'd be up there chasing Seeker tail," he says.

Divebomb snorts dismissively. "Please. Credit me with better taste than that, won't you?"

Tantrum laughs and kicks a crate out for his brother to sit on.

"Pour me some."

He obliges as Divebomb seats himself, watching as his brother flicks the soot from his wings as he does so. The hawkmech looks around the clearing of shattered, burning buildings and gestures with the canister that Tantrum hands to him. "You do all this?"

Tantrum chuckles and shrugs. "Well, you know how it is. Sometimes people just won't stop shooting their slagging mouths off and you have to do something about it!"

Divebomb snorts and nods, before throwing his head back to take a long drink. He knows exactly what his smiling, cheerful brute of a brother means. To look at him now you'd never think the mech was anything other than a placid, good-natured giant, ready with a joke and a cup of energon to share. But Divebomb can see the shattered buildings that surround them where something enormously heavy has impacted them at high speed, and his optics don't miss the crumpled scraps of dead metal littering the place. He catches the scent of burnt energon on the air and watches the slow crystallisation of the stuff coating his feet. Something terrible has happened in this place and the echoes of it still carry on the scorched wind and coat his brother's claws.

"Yeah," he says. "I know what you mean."

**05. abandoned ruins / Divebomb**

Tunnels are not his forte. _Underground_ is not his forte. Anything other than the clear, open skies or the lofty perches of a heavily armoured look-out are far down his list of places to spend his time. But such choices are not his to make, for he is but a soldier of the grand Decepticon Cause, and more to the point, Razorclaw said they were doing this.

This, is infiltration. _This_ is crawling on hands and knees in the aft-end of nowhere, hunting for an Autobot infiltrator that's long gone already. This is below them and Razorclaw must know that.

"Mind my damned wings, will you?"

"Eh? Why don't you get them out of the way then?"

"Why don't _you_ quit stuffing your face up my-"

"_Enough_."

Both Divebomb and the grumbling Headstrong fall silent as Razorclaw's voice cuts across the gestalt channel, low and dangerous. Neither of them are foolish enough to risk provoking him, certainly not in the middle of a mission like this.

Tensions are running high amongst the Predacons. Even for a team famed for their slick cohesion, this particular mission has begun to grate. Almost a week spent clambering around in the dark, twisting tunnels deep below Kaon, squeezing through gaps barely large enough to allow Divebomb to pass, let alone his more hefty brothers, and not a hint of the infiltrator's presence. If it wasn't for the reputation as master hunters that their leader has so carefully cultivated, Divebomb is certain they would long since given up and called it quits.

The abandoned tunnels beneath Kaon stretch for miles. Once, they were maintenance shafts, mines, even residential areas it seems. But now they are collapsed and broken down, filled with the grime and residue of millennia of neglect. No-one ever comes down here any more, and for good reason too.

It's Razorclaw up at the front of the team who sees the light first. Immediately the Predacons slide into their hunting pattern, silent and focussed, creeping forward with the stealth of programmed predators. But the light does not belong to any fleeing infiltrator, or even to an underground inhabitant. The tunnel ahead begins to widen and then abruptly it opens out into a wide ledge.

The Predacons move up to the edge of the passage, peering down into a chasm that opens up before them, sweeping up and down into an enormous underground cave. Craning his head upwards, Divebomb cannot make out the roof of the cavern, but many storeys below there lies the ruins of what appears to be a city. It is from these buildings that the weak light emanates, filling the darkness with a soft, emerald glow.

The buildings are old, like something from a history documentary or some old-style movie. The kind of architecture that no-one ever builds any more, partially because few can afford to, but mostly because no-one knows how to any more. Divebomb turns his attention to the silent city spread out below. The streets look empty and there is no sign of movement anywhere, as though the whole place is running on some backup routine that never got switched off. There is no immediate way down that he can see, and his wings flick in anticipation. Beside him, Razorclaw flexes his talons. "Go," he says, simply.

With a grin, Divebomb leaps from the ledge, transforms into his hawk form, and sweeps away into the darkness.

Things then, are finally looking up.


End file.
